


Executive Stress

by blusher91



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Power Dynamics, Rivalry, Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-14 00:31:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17498219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blusher91/pseuds/blusher91
Summary: Francis has been passed over for a promotion in favour of the handsome, vaunting James Fitzjames. He’s not pleased, to say the least.





	Executive Stress

**Author's Note:**

> taking a break from sad, cold boys to bring them momentarily into the JOYOUS AND WONDROUS present. because everything is great here.

“I’m the most qualified man in the goddamn firm.”

Francis took a large mouthful of whiskey, though his throat felt so raw he could hardly get it down. It felt like he'd been gargling with his own aggravated bile all afternoon. He slammed the glass down on the table.

Thomas surveyed him over his scotch. Usually he would have teased Francis for being a bitter, ungracious tosser. But today was different. And they both knew it.

Francis rubbed his forehead with a groan. “How can John screw me over for that arrogant fucking—”

“Careful now, Frankie.” Thomas put his drink down and raised an eyebrow at him. “Don’t say something you’ll regret.”

Francis shook his head and seethed. He shoved the half-empty whiskey glass away from him.

Thomas leant towards him. “Look, I know you’re feeling fucked over.” Francis glared at him. “But if someone hears you badmouthing the boss’s pick—”

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” Francis knew he was right despite his bad temper. A lot of people from the firm frequented that bar. He didn’t want to get hauled in on Monday to be raked over the coals for “lack of professionalism”. Again.

“You’re going to hate me for this.” Thomas snorted humourlessly. “But James really isn’t that bad. He's just a bit... overenthusiastic. Bit intense maybe.”

Francis lowered his voice to a petulant growl to make sure he wouldn’t be overheard. “He’s a self-satisfied, strutting show pony. You know he is.” He grunted and took another grudging swig of whiskey. “Always fucking going on about that fucking project he manned at fucking Google.”

Thomas shook his head with a slight smile. “Right.”

“What?” Francis said suspiciously. "What's that smile for?"

Thomas just shrugged. “Nothing. You hate the man. I get it.” He chuckled.

Francis sunk into a sullen silence. Maybe he shouldn't have been surprised. With John it was almost always about image and public relations. And to fucking hell with grit and experience. Francis knew he didn't have a silver tongue. Not like James. Not even like John. He didn’t have a head for social media or for schmoozing clients. But he was well-qualified, and he was bloody good at what he did. Even if he didn’t look as good in a goddamn suit.

“Why do you let him get under your skin?” Thomas said, raising his eyes to the ceiling. “Is it because he laughed at your idea about the flyers?”

Francis made an infuriated noise between his teeth. “ _Nobody does flyers anymore, Francis. Aren’t you on Twitter, Francis? Did I ever tell you I have a master’s degree in digital marketing, Francis?”_

Thomas cackled and drained the last of his scotch. “He doesn’t sound like that. It’s a fair impression of Margaret Thatcher though, I’ll give you that.”

“He’s going to be insufferable now,” Francis mumbled, massaging his temples. “Bloody insufferable.”

Thomas looked over Francis’s head and the corners of his mouth twitched. He jerked his head up. “Looks like you’ll have a chance to congratulate him after all.”

Francis whipped his head around. His stomach clenched as he spotted James's unmistakable figure making his way towards the bar.

"What the fuck is Prince Charming doing fraternising with the unwashed masses?" he said under his breath.

Thomas chuckled and got up.

Francis jerked upright in alarm. “Where the hell are you going?”

Thomas waggled his eyebrows at him. “Got this thing I gotta do. Sorry."

“Thomas!” Francis hissed, making a weak grab for his sleeve.

Francis swore under his breath as he turned to watch him leave. He stopped briefly beside James at the bar who was now holding a glass of red wine. _Bloody tosser,_ Francis thought sourly.

He watched them briefly converse, body tensing at the sound of James’s dulcet laugh. Christ, Thomas was a traitor and all. He thought he could have at least relied on him to not be sucked in by a pretty face and nice suit. He tutted irritably to himself.

Thomas slapped James on the arm with a bark of laughter and left. There was a smile playing on James’s face and a flush high up in his elegant cheekbones. Francis narrowed his eyes. Did he have to flirt with everyone? Didn’t he know Thomas was fucking married? _Tosser. Tosser times infinity._

His whole body tensed when James suddenly met his eye. Francis attempted a smile that must have looked distinctly like a grimace and an awkward, little wave. Christ, why did he always decide it was a great time to act like a fucking idiot when he was around James?

He had hoped that acknowledging his presence would stop James from making an immediate beeline for him, but of course that would be hoping for far too much from that wretched day.

“Drinking alone, Francis?”

Francis sunk deeper into his seat. “No, James,” he said flatly. “My imaginary friend will be back from the bathroom any minute now.”

James gave an unconvincing laugh and sat down opposite him. “Do you want another? What are you drinking?”

_My own piss it tastes like._

“Whiskey,” Francis said mildly. “I’m fine. Probably will have to go soon actually. Got this… thing.”

James nodded. A turgid silence descended on them like noxious gas. Francis watched James take a lengthy, pause-filling sip of his wine. Maybe it was the fact that he was always so well put-together that ground Francis’s gears. James looked like the kind of person who never spilt soy sauce on his shirt or accidentally wore odd socks or got toothpaste in his hair. That was just… irritating.

“Congratulations, by the way,” Francis grunted, holding up his glass to vaguely wave in his direction. “On the thing.”

“The promotion?” James said, because of course he had to remind Francis that he had gotten it and he hadn’t. Had to rub salt into the knife or whatever the fuck the phrase was. “Thank you. I only hope I won’t disappoint John.”

Francis gave a snort that he only made vague efforts to cover. “Right.” He drained the last of his whiskey and put the glass down heavily.

“I’m sorry.” James’s tone was needled. “Is something funny?”

It was always so easy to wind him up. It was the one thing that made conversing with him almost bearable. His ego was as fragile as it was inflated.

“Just that John isn’t known for his canny business decisions,” Francis said, feeling like he was wallowing in a satisfied bog of his own pettiness. “You know what he’s like. His partner practically does all the heavy lifting for him.”

James’s cheeks flared, but Francis could see he was keeping himself from rising to the bait. He shook his head with his lips in a taut, seething line and swallowed more wine. “If that’s how you see it.”

“It’s how the whole firm sees it.” Francis leant towards him. “Not trying to diminish your big win, James. It’s just that he does tend to like those who look good…” he paused to let the insult sink in fully, “on paper.”

James made a sound of barely contained fury and sharply put his glass down. “Why don’t you just say it, Francis? You don’t think I’m fit for the position?”

“I don’t remember saying anything of the kind,” Francis said, raising his eyebrows while he felt a surge of spiteful triumph. “I think you must be projecting.”

James looked like he very much wanted to slam his fist into the table. He pressed himself furiously into the table towards Francis. “You know, this was your chance to be a gentleman, Francis. To be gracious in defeat. But it is _completely_ beyond you.” His richly brown eyes were flashing. “You are just a sore loser.”

The word “loser” hit Francis like a blow, and he felt himself rearing up before he even had time to process it. “I’m sorry if the truth hurts, James,” he hissed, jerking upright to look him right in the eye. “You’re not a stupid lad. You know where your talents lie and it fucking isn’t in the nuts and bolts of business.”

James’s body was rigid with obvious anger. His hands were curled on the edge of the table, claw-like and infuriated. “I should have known you’d be incapable of taking the high road. Bitter and petty, Francis. You’ve become bitter and petty. And you’re a bloody liability.”

“Spare me,” Francis hissed with venom. “I’m over a decade older than you, James. Don’t fucking presume to lecture me.”

James arched up like an angry cat and almost threw himself across the table towards him. His face was so close now that he could almost taste the wine on his breath. “You’re an utter disgrace, Francis.” Every word he spat out was a caustic barb. “A bitter, old man. A _drunk_ —”

Francis’s chair gave an ear-splitting screech against the wooden floor as he stood up. Hands pressing heavily into the tabletop, he stared into James’s face. The adrenaline was so intense, he almost felt sick with it. It would have been only too easy to land a blow in that handsome face. And more than part of him wanted to, even though it would mean almost certain dismissal.

He and James held each other’s gaze, both of them seething in each other’s faces with badly disguised loathing. Francis took a step backwards and turned his back on him.

He quickly passed the gawking bar patrons and walked out onto the street, breathing in the car fumes and cigarette smoke like it was a restorative. It stung his throat, sore from snarling at James and the burn of cheap booze.

Without waiting to catch his breath, he joined the throng of people on the pavement and walked. He didn’t know where he intended to go, but if it meant he could keep his mind off of James fucking Fitzjames for a few hours then it would do him good.

 

James stood in front of Francis’s office door for a good ten minutes before he could bring himself to knock. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had the whole weekend to turn over the events of Friday night in his mind. And he had. Almost ceaselessly.

He thought it was rather unfair that he felt as guilty as he did. He wasn’t the one who had picked a fight. He wasn’t the one who had thrown Francis’s successes and sacrifices back in his face like they meant nothing.

He sighed and shook his head. But he had gotten personal. And very, very angry. He’d said things that he should never have said. That he never _would_ have said except to Francis. Because Francis got under his skin like nobody and nothing else did.

He finally lifted his hand and rapped on the door. There was a pause. James stared straight ahead at his knuckles still hovering in mid-air. He felt ridiculous. Like he had been summoned to the headmaster’s office. But John couldn’t stand in-fighting in the firm and he only barely tolerated James and Francis’s bickering as it was. James would score brownie points for making amends.

“Come in.”

James ignored the goosebumps that had erupted on his arms and went in. He closed the door behind him, feeling relieved at shutting out the ever-curious eyes and ears of his co-workers. Francis’s office was its usual state of organised chaos. His fingers always itched to tidy the papers and folders spread over almost every surface.

Francis looked at him over his laptop and his expression remained blank. The only sign that he recognised him at all was a slight narrowing of his eyes.

“I hope I’m not interrupting.” James tried not to fidget under Francis’s steady gaze. He always managed to make him feel like he was some intern on their first day of work.

“If you were, I wouldn’t have let you in,” Francis said testily.

James grunted, feeling a bit deflated. “Quite.” He cleared his throat. “I wanted to… apologise. For Friday. I said things that were out of line and it was unprofessional.” He paused, waiting for a reaction from Francis. There wasn’t one. “I hope I didn’t offend you,” he added as an afterthought.

Francis looked at him, his expression not shifting for better or worse. With a dismissive jerk of his head and a grunt, he looked back down at his laptop. “Apology accepted.”

James stared at him. He felt stunned and then annoyed. “Francis—”

“Is that all?” Francis said, without looking up. “I’ve got a mountain of work, James.”

Something clicked in James’s head like a switch. He strode towards Francis’s desk and forced the screen of his laptop down with a sharp snap. Francis jerked upright like he’d been stung and looked directly into James’s eyes, a familiar edge of irritation coming into them.

“James,” he said, in what was clearly the most measured tone he could muster. “I don’t have time for this.”

James could have hit him. The nerve of the man. The absolute goddamn _gall_. He was glad the building’s walls were soundproofed because he could feel the dormant anger bubbling up again. He didn't know if he'd be able to control himself if Francis continued baiting him.

“And you have nothing to say to me?” he said, struggling to keep his voice even.

Francis raised his eyebrows at him in a truly infuriating way. “Nope.” A smirk ghosted across the lopsided line of his mouth. “Close the door on the way out, won’t you?”

He opened his laptop and turned his attention back to it. James watched him in disbelief. He had thought… wrongly, misguidedly, in greatest _naivety_ that Francis would have the class and character to apologise for the things he’d said. He knew the man disliked him, but to think he believed the things he’d flung at James so keenly that he couldn’t even countenance retracting them… Well, for the first time in their long and combative association, James felt the sharp and unwanted presence of hurt. The idea that Francis really did think he was a fraud, some puffed-up poseur was... hard to take somehow.

He shook his head in slow and wordless disbelief and turned to leave.

“James.”

He didn’t move. He stood in the middle of the floor with his back to Francis and whatever fresh insult he intended to throw at him.

“For God’s sake,” Francis sighed. “Look. I'm sorry too, alright?”

James didn’t believe him. “No, you were quite right. I am clearly just a novelty. Can’t imagine why John thought I would be up to the job—”

“Christ.” He heard Francis’s chair give a squeal as he stood up from his desk. “Don’t be so childish. We were both pissed off—”

James spun towards him. “Oh? And what in particular do you regret?” he spat. “When you accused me of incompetence? Or perhaps of being the beneficiary of favouritism?”

Francis rounded his desk, so they were facing each other fully. He jabbed a finger towards James’s face. “Oh, get off your high horse,” he snarled. “We both know we meant what we said. True or fucking not. We meant it.”

James stumbled a step towards him, hands curled into fists. What was he going to do? Hit him? Fucking tempting. But likely to get him severely disciplined. He didn’t want to give Francis the satisfaction.

“You are a cretin,” James said with as much disdain and loathing he could inject into his voice. “And this company will be much improved when you’re inevitably fired for drinking on the job—”

He reeled back as sudden and sharp pain bloomed in his cheek. He clutched at it, staring in shock at Francis. Francis shook his hand vigorously with a frustrated huff of breath.

“Jesus _fuck_ that hurts—”

He was cut off by James barrelling into him. His face ached and Francis was stockier and stronger than him, but pure instinct and unadulterated fury had kicked in. Francis let out a harsh “ _oof_ ” as he collided with his desk behind him, sending his laptop flying. It landed on the floor with an ominous crunch.

James realised quite quickly that indignant rage did not make up for not being able to fight. Francis easily reversed their positions, pinning him into the desk. They tousled ineffectually on the edge of it, hands scrabbling for purchase on each other’s clothes and hair. James tried in vain to throw him off, driving his hips and torso up into the heavier man above him.

Francis suddenly went strangely rigid on top of him. James froze at the sound of the barely choked back groan that had been forced from him. _Was that…?_

James suddenly and sharply became aware that he was being effectively held down by the weight of Francis’s pelvis. He stopped struggling for a moment and his eyes trailed down Francis’s torso to where their bodies met. Like some obscene Greek statue, they were literally connected at the hips. Bodies all twisted and entwined. It was like they were—

_Oh._

James stared blankly at Francis and then lurched towards him. Suddenly their ungratifying scuffle was an embrace. Francis’s fingers were tangled in his hair and his clothes. James was no longer trying to throw him off like an angry horse or trying to scratch his eyes out. A hand clutched his leg, bent it somewhat awkwardly, pulled him deeper and firmer against Francis’s body. His felt his crotch mash almost painfully and extremely intimately against Francis's.

They struggled on the edge of the desk, Francis’s papers being shed in every direction like fallen leaves. James was almost on top of it, almost on his back underneath Francis.

Feeling like he was hardly in control of his own actions, he clutched the other man’s jaw with both hands and kissed him. Or something like it. It felt more like they were trying to climb down each other’s throats. Forcing aggressively into each other’s mouths, not in an attempt at dominance but out of sheer, frantic need. Francis rocked against him, rubbing his hips furiously into James's. It forced a harsh groan from James's mouth.

“James,” Francis rasped into his mouth, his large hands were gripping him by one leg and one arm.

They were as entangled as they could be while still dressed in three-piece suits and leather Oxfords. James felt himself emptying pre-come into his underwear. It was shameful, horrid. _Goddamn erotic_.

“I’m sorry.” Francis abruptly broke away. “I need to…” He trailed off with a dazed shake of his head.

James stared at him blankly. He looked down and it was almost uncanny seeing the obvious and almost audacious full shape of Francis’s erection. His body twitched with electric longing. And confusion.

 _Had this been it all along_ , he thought. Had their constant snarling and snapping at each other been in reality because they desperately and completely needed to shag each other’s brains out? Christ.

He took two sudden steps back from Francis and turned away. Francis didn’t try to stop him or call after him as he very nearly ran for the door. Eyes widened in shock, James fled from the room before his brain could catch up with what his body had done.

On the way to the meeting he was now late for, he gingerly touched the place Francis had hit him.


End file.
